


The Starving Man

by cmcross



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:42:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmcross/pseuds/cmcross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's like a part of you is missing...and it's something more important than a limb or an organ. It feels like someone's carved out a piece of your soul and you feel the loss of it keenly. More on some days, less on others, but you feel it. All the time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Starving Man

He's on his way to meet Mike and some of the lads for a pint when the rain starts. If Sherlock were here he'd be calling him an idiot for forgetting his coat, but it was a testament to the powers of the healing process that he could even think about his best friend without bursting into tears. He still places flowers on his grave every Sunday and still works at St. Bart's. Sometimes he accidentally makes tea for two instead of one. On those days he finds himself sitting in Sherlock's room, holding the bloodstained cashmere scarf he was wearing when he died. But he's…better. The black hole of sadness and depression that had threatened to consume him has faded to a dull ache in his heart. He still has Molly and Sarah and Mike to talk to. Even Lestrade stops by now and again.

He ducks inside a little shop and waits for the downpour to stop. It doesn't. There's a Chinese woman working the counter. "You buy umbrella?" she holds one out to him. "Ten pound! You stay dry!"

He presses a twenty pound note into her palm and takes the umbrella, remembering the time he and Sherlock took down an international smuggling ring based out of China. He looks at the umbrella, turning it over in his hands he examines it. It's made of cheap material; the handle is plastic and he's not sure the frame will hold up against a summer breeze, much less a London rain storm, but he looks at it and for the first time since Sherlock's funeral he thinks of Mycroft.

He calls Mike. "Listen, mate, I won't be able to make it round tonight. Something I've gotta handle first."

* * *

To say that Mycroft was surprised to see John Watson walk into his office would be like saying The Grand Canyon was a crack in the sidewalk.

"Doctor Watson. I was not expecting you."

"Stop the presses. I've shocked Mycroft Holmes," he sits in the leather chair opposite him and smiles.

Mycroft is…unsettled. Their last meeting did not go so well. "Is there something I can do for you, Doctor Watson?"

John gives him a knowing look. "You know my first name, Mycroft. Use it."

"Is there something I can do for you, _John_?" he lets his displeasure lace his voice.

"Not really, no. I just…wanted to see how you are."

Mycroft makes plans to have every cricket in the greater London area destroyed because they are entirely too loud. "I beg your pardon?"

"How are you Mycroft? I mean, I don't really imagine you have many people to talk to, and I wondered…I mean, he was your brother. You lost him too."

Mycroft is more touched than he could ever express. Others of his ilk had looked down their noses at him, reveling in the fact his brother had gone down in such a fashion, taking the Holmes family name with him. But John's concern was…genuine.

"Better than yesterday, worse than tomorrow," he says with a soft smile.

"Good. Brilliant. That's what I hoped."

They're silent again.

Anthea walks in, nose buried in her phone, "Sir? You have a meeting."

"Ah. Yes," Mycroft stands and smooths nonexistent wrinkles from his suit. "Thank you for coming by, John. Shall I have a car brought round for you?"

"Thanks but no."

Mycroft nods and walks away, Anthea trailing behind him. John watches him go and thinks to himself that it really is loneliest at the top. Mycroft could use a friend.

John smiles to himself. He was…scheming. Against _Mycroft_.

Sherlock would have been so proud.

* * *

It takes some doing, and a new pair of ruby red Christian Louboutin stilettos for Anthea, but he manages to get a hold of Mycroft's schedule.

That's how he wound up smirking at Mycroft when the man walked into the café and saw John sitting there, sipping his coffee cool as you please. He felt rather smug, all things considering.

"Anthea?" Mycroft asks.

He nods.

"I'm very impressed, John, but I'm still wondering what the purpose of this meeting is," he hooks his umbrella on the back of the chair and sits down.

"I…worry about you, Mycroft," he reaches across the table and places his hand on top of Mycroft's. "You must be…lonely. Is there anyone you can talk to without worrying they'll use your feelings against you?"

"No," he says. "There's no one."

John tightens his fingers a bit. "There's me. I know I'm not much but…I'm here. And misery loves company. Or so they say."

Mycroft shakes his head. "You really are incredibly loyal, John. I wish there were more men like you in the world."

John laughs. It's a true, genuine laugh and it makes Mycroft's heart stutter. "Sherlock would have been even more bored than he already was," he says. Then his eyes grow dim for a moment and Mycroft knows he's remembering every moment he'd ever spent with Sherlock; cataloging each on and hoarding them deep within his heart, like a starving man with only so many rations left.

"It's like a part of you is missing," Mycroft says. "And it's something more important than a limb or an organ. It like someone's carved out a piece of your soul and you feel the loss of it keenly. Every day. More on some, less on others, but you still feel it. Every day. All the time."

"Yeah. Yeah. Yes." John's eyes begins to water and he looks away. Mycroft is seconds away from telling him the truth, from disclosing everything that had happened, and begging forgiveness for his part in it, when John glances back at him and smiles a watery smile. "But it's getting better. All the time."

They part company a few minutes later, but Mycroft lingers in the café as John walks away. After he disappears from sight Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "You are a very lucky man, Sherlock."

He gathers his umbrella and coat and makes for the door. His phone pings in his pocket.

_I know. - SH_

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is loosely inspired by the song Getting Better All The Time by Brooks and Dunn.


End file.
